The Logs of Dr S Cratch
by JustAnotherGrump
Summary: A humanstuck take upon Doc Scratch as a psychiatrist. The twelve trolls are his patients, of course. I may or may not include more characters as I progress. To be honest, this is my only fanfiction work that I'm actually proud of. Let's see how long that lasts.
1. Log 1: Karkat

The Logs of Dr. S. Cratch

Log #1- Karkat

The meeting starts a little more quietly than I expected. In fact, the boy hasn't really said much or replied much to my affable attempts at small conversation. Yes, no, and vulgar replies such as "piss off" and "fuck you". Those two I expected.

He has the expected look of an introverted insomniac, as his father described him beforehand. I can only imagine how his daily, home life is. He's not well off, but he's not poor either; I consider it to be the perfect region for relative happiness. But, of course, that's the furthest thing away from reality.

His clothes and sagged position suggest he hasn't been paying attention to his look lately. Lately being for the majority of his aware adolescence. His eyes are bagged, his scowl everlasting. In honesty, I would've diagnosed him with bipolar disorder the moment he stepped in should I have not known he had been already diagnosed.

For a long while, the sound of a clock and my clicking pen fill the empty silence. I sigh, exasperated. "Mr. Vantas, I understand that you have absolutely no desire to be here." He scoffs at my lie at understanding. "However, that doesn't mean you're making any headway."

He blinks at this. "Headway? The literal fuck does that mean?" It looks like he hasn't been told by his father yet.

I remove my glasses for the impending rage session. "Your father has told me he wishes for you to keep coming to these sessions for as long as possible, so long that your anger is under-" I wasn't able to finish my statement.

"THAT FUCKASS!" "THE HELL'S HIS PROBLEM?!" "I'M FINE AS I FUCKING AM!" Various other phrases of malcontent permeate the building. Other patients and doctors should count themselves lucky for not going deaf.

After a good minute of this, silence resumes. "Finished?" I ask. "Fucking hardly!" Is his reply.

"Mr. Vantas, Karkat, if I may?" His silence affirms my question. "Why is it that you think he sent to these sessions to begin with?"

He chuckles bitterly, finally leaning back into the sofa. What a relief. His tension was getting to me. "Cause he's like everybody fucking else. Always eager to drop his shit on somebody, that somebody always me." He pauses. "I don't see why. He's as much of a fucking asshole as I am."

Admitting a problem. That's a start. I decided to keep poking at his father. "Why's that?" I press.

He suddenly becomes a chatty-Kathy. Drinking, coming home late, fast food and take out for dinner. Though he doesn't admit it, the fact he doesn't have a motherly figure to rely on seems to be an ever-present issue on his psyche.

Again he becomes silent. It seems I've run the father issue dry. Time to move on. "Would you mind telling me a bit about your friends?" His expression remains unchanged from where it has resided, but he looks off.

"Shit, mostly. Too many of them are busy with their own little issues to realize I'm flying off the fucking handle."

"What of those that aren't? You've mentioned a Gamzee, a Kanaya...?"

He shrugs nonchalantly. But I know it's more of a defense mechanism than apathy. "They're alright, I guess. Though Gamzee's usually too high off his ass to talk seriously to. And Kanaya's more of a m-" He struggles to say it. "More of one of those nitpicking, orderly persons who's always on your case for some sorta shit you've done."

I have no idea what kind of friend that'd be, that last part. As I've guessed, he seems to have an unusual and very moderate way of interpreting the definition of companionship. However, there seems to be something more to it and I haven't exactly figured it out yet.

"If I may, Karkat, the way you interact with your friends seems to be rather restrained. Why is that?"

He stiffens up. He knows exactly what it means, even though he replies with the typical "what do you mean?" response. Troublesome as it is, it appears we're getting somewhere.

"What I mean is you seem to convey an essence of bitterness, though I have no imaginable reason as to why. Your family life is decent, if not disconnected; your social life fairs quite a bit better. At some point or another you've commented on how highly all of your friends think of you, or at least most of them. Though you feign an ego, you're rather self-depreciating. For absolutely no reason, given how a leader of a group usually attracts a hefty view of self. I ask again, why is that?"

He's shifting around nervously. No doubt that whatever it is defines a majority of his existence.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Karkat, I do-"

"I *SAID* I don't wanna talk about it."

Throughout this, however, I see him shift his left arm, as if to hide something on his covered wrist. The idea of self-mutilation was persistent, but not prevailing. No, the boy seemed stronger willed than that. Then, what?

Ah, now I understood. The pale complexion, the sickly appearance (quite literally, given he was always stricken by a cold or the like). The purposeful detachment from family, friends, lovers and enemies. Because, of course, why would you want to hurt those you care for when you're already so close to doing so?

I stood at that, setting everything away. "You can leave now, Mr. Vantas," I said, soon exiting myself.


	2. Log 2: Gamzee

Log #2: Gamzee

Now I wish I had taken my coworker's advice about freshening up my office with some sort of artificial scent. I would've much more appreciated that than the atrocious smell of intoxicants.

At least this boy is kindly, even if he has an issue with cursing. I consider cursing to be an issue when foul language is used in practically every other sentence. So far, Mr. Makara has not failed this theory.

In any case, he's much more able and willing at communicating than my last patient. His words and accent give the impression of hardship and roughness, but he maintains an ever-present, smiling demeanor. In daily life, I wouldn't have suspected a thing was wrong with the young man.

But his father disproved that guess.

I'm not entirely sure what the man does for a living. His name has come up here and there in the music industry, and he appears to be heavily involved with it. Thus, every moment he lives in is spent flying in, out and around the country, away from his beloved son. Though the mental image suggests otherwise, his phone call to me gives me the impression that he cares very deeply for the boy.

He also warned me of something rather...peculiar. I'll have to find out if this is true or not.

The boy looks like he just came from a party. Or about to go to a party. In fact, his entire getup suggests that his life is consistently filled by the social. He appears to be soaking every bit of it.

The meeting is filled with his ramblings of how life is going. Because, apparently, "life is a motherfucking miracle". I find it amazing that he can associate such vile behavior with the civilities of a peaceful religion.

"So, that bout sums it up," he concludes, finishing his little list of occurrences.

I'm not quite finished with mine. "Gamzee, how is your rehabilitation program going?" I don't know why I ask such rhetorical questions.

He sighs deeply, somewhat bothered by the subject of giving up these dependents. "Gonna be honest, not so well, Doc." You don't say.

"I mean, I know they ain't good for me or my motherfuckin' head. But I like it all!" He extends his arms like he's preaching. How touching. "The booze, the drugs...it's good to me and I don't see what's so motherfucking bad about it."

His unwavering smile suddenly wavers. I'm paying attention now.

"Plus..." The addict is unsure how to start.

"Go on," I persuade.

"When I tried getting off all of it, I...I started hearing things."

This caught my attention, indeed. "Such as?" I press, almost eager to listen. Almost.

"Bad things. Voices and, and whispers. Tellin' me all this wicked, messed up shit!"

His lip ring is quivering. "The more I got off of the stuffs, the more I'd hear em, the louder they'd be. And...the worst part was, I'd start listening."

His usually calm, throaty voice is somewhat panicked. "They'd tell me to do the one thing that I'd never motherfuckin' do, not in my whole fucking lifetime." He leans forward as if to try to get his point across; it's not all too successful. Sure, I hear him. But I'm not so easily impressed, mind you. "To hurt my bros..."

A history of paranoid, violent schizophrenia. The traveling father was lucky enough to have escaped this tendency; his son, not so fortunate. The man had said it started appearing around his early childhood, but it often resulted in very painful migraines. The only remedy seemed to be equally heavy painkillers, lapsing the episodes and jump-starting his addiction to substances.

"But why, Gamzee, would they tell you such a thing?"

"I- I dunno. Like..." He grows quiet, as if he's afraid to even tread on the subject. "Like...it's like I'm tired of them not takin' me seriously any more."

His own words appear to frighten him. "But I know they do! They motherfuckin' listen, talk to me, be with me...but they..." Again, he grows quiet, as if he were internally battling with his own demons. "They don't understand anythin' I say."

Suddenly he growls in frustration, smacking himself upside the head. "No, no, no!" Everything from when I first saw him today was gone; no calmness, no air of zen. Absolute fear had taken over and desperation was seeping in.

"Doc, please! You gotta help me! I'm afraid and...I don't wanna hurt nobody!" If I had a heart, I may have shed a tear.

Instead, I stand and leave my materials behind. "Do not fret, Gamzee," I say, handing him something as I leave. "These shall solve all of your issues without a thought."

I can only imagine the look on his face when he saw those suckers.


	3. Log 3: Terezi

Log #3: Terezi

(Author's Note: thank you all for being so patient with me for not updating in. Well. Quite a while. Things have been quite hectic as of late, to say the least. But anyway, I'm back. Let's shove those other ten trolls down our AU throats.)

Again, in honesty, I had the suspicion this one would be a bit of trouble.

In fact. She found herself buried in it. I believe she took not four steps before her hips caught the edge of the table and perhaps two other objects. From there it was an absolute. Complete. Disaster.

...though I am amiable and rather patient, I don't particularly appreciate my items of possessions being broken by my, well. Patients. Accidentally or otherwise, by inhibition or otherwise.

Her mother, a kindly but, surprisingly fierce woman, had made it quite clear her daughter was indeed devastated by her recently acquired blindness. Recently being a few months or so ago. I made sure not to mention that little bit in our conversation. It may have well resulted in my own impairment; though I doubt it would have been anywhere close to my eyes.

The girl's appearance was much like that of my first patient, though I doubted it be due to not caring; actually, no. Perhaps a bit of both. Before the accident, her mother had stated her being quite adventurous, so I doubt beauty would be on the top of her things to do.

And indeed, things to do.

Our session begins with my silence, just as surprisingly. Though, again, not as surprisingly if you consider my high regard for things that I own. I manage to suppress this, however. "Ms. Pyrope, I assume you're still having trou-" I pause and watch her current activity. "Why is it that you are licking my couch."

"Wazz that?" Her raspy voice is excruciating.

"Please stop."

She gives another lick to the leather before crossing her arms in a bit of stubborn, teenage defiance. "Fine," she mutters, but instead toys with the pendant of Lady Justice around her neck, occasionally gnawing and licking on that.

"Anyway. I assume you are still having difficulty accustoming to your situation?" She looks up at some offish direction, a bit away from me. I don't say anything for the moment, but I have the feeling my wit will force me to do so.

"What, you mean my blindness?" She laughs. Maniacally, might I add. All the more excruciating. "You quacks are so fucking lame, you know?!" There's bitterness in her tone, but you wouldn't be able to notice behind the supposed, hysterical cheer.

I sigh. "May you please answer the question?"

The girl groans out of disgust. "Ugh. Yeah, it's no trip. And it hurts. Whaddya expect, I guess." She shrugs. Indeed, she doesn't seem to care about this impairment at all. Somewhat surprising. I certainly would.

In fact. Her mother stated another interesting tidbit to me, much like the second's father.

But there's a time for that. I instead trim through the tried and rather true questions of typicality. As expected, she goes through them scathingly and critically, only answering after deliberate prodding. Very. Very difficult. It's almost unbearable.

But nevertheless. Her ambition and determination intrigues me.

I suppose now would be the time to do so.

"Ms. Pyrope, or, Terezi, if I may." She mutters something along the lines of 'about time'. "Your mother has mentioned that, well. The doctor who diagnosed your impairment was unsure as to how it happened. Your family history suggests nothing of the sort. In fact, it's quite the picture of perfect health."

She grumbles. "Again with the fucking 'impairment' and shit like that. Yeah, they dunno. I really don't want them to know."

Ooh. Now I'm intrigued. "And I suppose it's you who wants me to know how you obtained your. Blindness." The word is wretched in my throat, but she becomes a bit more easy-going, relaxed. "Well my mom isn't gonna let me stop going to these dipshits until I actually get somewhere so I might as well."

I tempt with the issue as to whether my sessions or myself are 'dipshits,' but I let it sit for a while. My silence provokes her expected story.

She begins rambling on about this. Game, of sorts. LARP. All the ins and outs of it I especially do not want to hear but manage to hear. And she's still not looking at me. You would think she would eventually realize this, but apparently, the myth behind bettered senses with the loss of eyesight is false. Eventually, she comes to the critical point, however.

A long list of vengeances. An injury to one, retaliation to them, and reclamation from the victor. It surprises me that this Vriska has managed to be so. Victorious in whatever she has done, despite how Terezi has indicated her lucklessness. In any case. Her injury to the other was very traumatic. In a very similar fashion to another incident that I shall not name for my own sake.

"And. Then." Her voice quivers at this. "Well. She's forceful. And. She had all these idiots. Every day hold me down and force me to watch the sun." I suspected as such, but. Perhaps not to this degree. "They wouldn't stop until I couldn't even see a foot in front of me..."

However. She resumes her stubborn, defiant position. In candid opinion, it wasn't even this. It was something much more; like a narcissist with reasoning, she assumed an authority of righteousness behind her actions and the actions done unto her. "But I really don't care that much! Fuck, I even like being blind! It's kinda cool? Though personally it still sucks like dragon tail, haha!"

For once in a while. I'm rather silent. Not out of voice or choice...I'm unsure how to disclose it.

"I'm sitting to your left," I instead say, ending there.


	4. Log 4: Sollux

Log #4: Sollux

Sooner or later, one asks in their life what is it that they're doing here. I'd like to imagine that's what the both of us are thinking at the moment.

But dear Lord this duality is sickening. It's as tense and as obvious as the awkwardness of the air. Now, typically I wouldn't be bothered by such. Curious displays of character. In fact, I might even attempt at making a (subtly insulting, but) friendly joke at it.

But that'd be saying I enjoy the company of the boy. That, I thoroughly do not.

The father(s) warned me beforehand; I suppose I should have prepared for that. The impassioned one, who, ironically, was brazenly flamboyant, suggested quite a direct and difficult approach to his obsessive bipolar disorder. The reserved one requested a more toned down, subtle attempt at talk. Though I don't exactly feel obliged to take either, really, especially from a dysfunctional, working-class homosexual family. It just. Reels of argument.

Of course, I can't exactly do either, given the boy's blasted headphones. How does one even function like that. I appreciate practically all of the arts; that should be certain and quite obvious. But, really. Two different songs simultaneously?

I clear my throat at a hesitant attempt at conversation. He doesn't respond. I don't even know if he can see through those ridiculous glasses of his.

Tap my pen. Nothing.

Now I'm just irritated. "Mr. Captor," I pronounce clearly. That does it, though he only removes one. Clearly that bothers him, as his blank stare reaffirms.

"While I can certainly appreciate the silence, it's not in my profession to let it continue on like so. Now, if you could please remove your other earbud? It's quite distracting."

He groans and does so, grumbling something incomprehensible before crossing his arms- Lord even that goes with duality. "If you're talking about how I'm thuppothed to keep going here until they thay it'th fine that I don't, you don't have to."

His lisp, surprisingly, isn't the most obnoxious thing about him, but the way he ends his statements as if he were asking a question. "But, theriouthly, why AM I here?"

"In honesty, Mr. Captor, or, Sollux?" He declares he prefers Mr. Captor. Sollux it is. "I was hoping you could answer that yourself." No, never mind. I wasn't hoping for that.

He leans back into the couch, grumbling. "Thome bullthit reathon about how I'm unthociable or thomething like that." He shrugs nonchalantly, but I can tell there is a bit of pent up emotion behind the unusually colored sunglasses. "It'th no big deal. I've got friendth."

"Would Karkat be one of them? I believe he mentioned you once or twice."

At this, he began to laugh quite uncontrollably. "Ehehehehe, aw, man, KK goeth here, too?! That'th jutht rich!" I don't see the problem or the humor behind that. What could possibly be wrong with attending the comforting therapy of a psychiatrist.

"Yes, well. He has mentioned you once or twice."

He eventually stops his giggling fit and continues his act as a somewhat normal person. "Yeah, he'th cool I gueth. We don't hang out all that much though."

This, for some reason, strikes me as unusual. While the boy processes solitude to be a viable option for his sort of existence, his relationships, like Mr. Vantas, are extremely confined. But not out of selection or inability, but by visual choice. "Why so?" I ask, but by my experiences with my last patient, I have a feeling of. Recognition.

"Cauthe otherwithe we'd end up killing each other. We argue a lot." He shrugs this off, but continues to talk. "I mean. It'th not tho bad. It'th embarrathing, but that'th it. It'th a lot eathier to handle mythelf around him."

"Handle yourself?"

He winces. Here it comes. "Y-yeah. I gueth. Thometimeth I can get carried away with thingth."

He growls a bit, obviously upset by his own words. "But I thould be able to! I'm fucking thmart, right?! I thouldn't have to worry about thethe god-damn thingth!"

What a mouth. "But I can't! I have to, AGH, keep mythelf contained around everyone! My friendth, the people I like! And the people I care for! Cauthe otherwithe, I. I..."

His tirade trails off and simmers down to heavy, raspy breathing. It's unusual to see this degree of. Velocity between emotional outbursts and recovering normalcy, especially in such a hideous case of disorder.

But I understand. His fathers and my past patient all explained to me that he was misled in this sort of condition into harming a particularly close friend of his. Very traumatic, hospitalizing, near-death, the whole nine-yards. It appears this "event", as I am now calling this occurrence of games, has affected quite a number of people.

I feel. Sympathetic, I suppose. But I'm not obliged to continue such emotions.

"You have no need to explain. We're done for today, anyway," I say, leaving him the mercy of his unusual solitude.


End file.
